The Wilson Deception by David O. Stewart Page A

could get shot as an escaped prisoner.”
    â€œI can’t entirely rule that out, of course. You may well prefer that he serve his sentence. I believe it was twenty years? You can see him when it’s over.”
    Dulles turned to leave, but Cook grabbed him by the bicep and squeezed hard. “Tell me the truth. Is it dangerous?”
    Dulles smiled with an unexpected benevolence. “Life, my dear man, is dangerous. Look at poor Monsieur Clemenceau, who was only leaving for work one morning.”
    â€œWhat happens when Joshua gets to that address?”
    â€œHe’ll be safe there.” Cook let go of his arm. Dulles took from his pocket a folded paper. “For a time. I expect to make use of him, of course. I cannot yet say how. That part of the plan is not yet ripe. But I will. He must be prepared for that. If he is not”—Dulles assumed a facial expression that apparently was meant to be intimidating—“then the army will find him again, with all of the consequences that would flow from that discovery.”
    â€œThis use you’ll make of him. Does it involve anything dangerous?”
    â€œMr. Cook, I just answered that question. You seem to forget that Sergeant Cook—without any assistance from his father—has charged German trenches. I’m sure he’s equal to any challenges he might confront in peacetime Paris.”
    When Cook accepted the paper, Dulles added, “Get word to me through Dr. Fraser within the next forty-eight hours. He seems a sound fellow. The good doctor can come and go at the Hotel Crillon without drawing the attention that you doubtless would. I can give him the details for the misplacing. Sergeant Cook will be transferred from Chaumont in three days. After that, I can’t help you.”
    Cook watched Dulles cross the platform and press the button to summon the elevator. He hated that young man for his cockiness, his education, his relatives. But he needed him. Lord, Cook thought, Dulles had better know his business.
    The younger man grew impatient waiting for the elevator. He walked over to the metal stairs and began trotting down them. After waiting a decent interval, Speed walked over to the stairs and looked down. They zigzagged back and forth and back and forth as far as he could see. Dulles was already a dozen flights down. Cook’s knees ached at the thought of using them. He moved in front of the elevator doors and settled in to wait.

Chapter 12
    Monday, February 24, 1919
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    F rench farm life, viewed between boxcar slats on a slow-moving train, charmed Joshua. The land looked soggy, weary of winter. Patches of snow were not yielding to spring. The sun cast long shadows as daylight slipped away.
    The vertical slices of countryside seemed quaintly luxurious, a world without artillery barrages or bayonets, without bullets or barbed wire. People didn’t piss or crap into buckets while others stood nearby, pretending it wasn’t happening. Noise, even in a rattling boxcar, knew its place, never presuming to overpower or terrify. The front lines, more than anything else, had been exhausting. Not just the lack of sleep, the constant digging and rebuilding of trenches, the crawling around on patrol, every sense jangling. It was having to do the opposite of what he wanted to do, what he should do, every moment of the day and night. Even when he wasn’t thinking about it or didn’t know he was thinking about it, some part of his brain was screaming for him to run away, get away from this insane place and never turn back. Controlling that scream, doing what was plainly stupid, wore a man out.
    He thought that was one reason he didn’t react right away when he was convicted. Though he hadn’t deserted, he’d wanted to. Maybe the army should punish him for that, for thinking wrong the whole time he was at war.
    Then again, after the front, prison wasn’t so bad. While under arrest, he no longer lived